


Floral

by eyegnats



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon - Freeform, Emetophilia, F/F, Fingering, Hanahaki Cultural Shift, Hanahaki Disease, Hanahaki Therapy, Ingrid/Ambiguous Third Party, Kink Meme, Light Dom/sub, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyegnats/pseuds/eyegnats
Summary: Ingrid is struck with the disease of unrequited lovers.Dorothea specializes in soothing the symptoms.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Floral

**Author's Note:**

> [From a kink meme prompt.](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=1833800)
> 
> [Follow me on Twitter, if you'd like.](https://twitter.com/GnatsGonzalez)

When the grand lion takes Enbarr, Dorothea knows new patrons will follow. Swathes of knights trip over themselves to walk at the heels of royalty, swarming the reclaimed city and stamping the spilled blood of imperial soldiers down into the street cobbles. The men celebrate. They spend. Dorothea has mind for their coin more than their attitudes. She keeps a particular eye for their leaders—the generals and nobles that offer more pennies for her time than the average footman. The Opera is open two weeks after Enbarr falls. The show must go on, after all, and Dorothea has always had a role to play.

Her latest patron had to be courted. Seduced, even, the proud thing she was. A glimmer of that pride remains as she holds the door to Dorothea’s room open. Ingrid stands broad, at attention, and deeply ill. Her other hand is tucked neatly behind her back as she nods for Dorothea to enter first. What a gentlewoman. Dorothea thanks her for her manners. A stray hand ghosts across Ingrid’s cheek and the victorious knight does not flinch, or blush, but her gaze drags heavy as Dorothea saunters into the room.

Ingrid clicks the door shut behind them and stands facing it, hand lingering on the wood. She does not move. Dorothea seizes the moment of hesitance to sprawl herself across the low couch in the room. She arranges the layers of sheer and velvet that form her dress into something aesthetically ravished. She smiles, and tips her chin up when Ingrid finally turns to face her.

“I… I have,” Ingrid starts, voice distant. Something seizes in her chest and she stops herself.

“I know, Countess,” Dorothea offers. She extends long, manicured fingers to usher Ingrid closer. “I could see it when I met you.”

Ingrid does not move. Her hands withdraw close to her body. They hover there, unsure.

“It’s alright,” Dorothea adds. “I’m not a superstitious woman. I know it’s not contagious.”

Ingrid’s chest heaves and she coughs. Once. It’s heavy and abrupt and a single, fledged flower petal is expelled out of her mouth. It catches the slight draft of the room and flutters to the floor. Ingrid’s hand rises to clamp over her mouth. “My apologies,” Ingrid says. She sounds hoarse behind the muffle of her fingers.

“Is it deep?” Dorothea inquires.

“I won’t monopolize your time with my state,” Ingrid replies. 

“You can monopolize me however you please,” Dorothea says. It’s nothing short of a croon and, there it is, the slight dip of pink at Ingrid’s cheeks. “Come here. Won’t you?”

Ingrid’s hand lower but her lips stay firmly locked together. She takes a few, hesitant steps forward. She takes a knee too easily, Dorothea thinks, when Ingrid lowers herself before the couchside. Her hands settle on the ground. Her armor clacks together at odd angles, not built for submissiveness. 

Dorothea is already smiling, but it feels a little more genuine when Ingrid looks up at her wide-eyed and out-of-depth. “Now then,” the songstress says. “You know I can’t cure you, correct?”

It takes a long moment for Ingrid to work up the bravery to open her mouth again. When she does, Dorothea smiles at the little pink petals lacing her tongue. She must have been keeping them stuffed in there for propriety. “I’m aware, ma’am,” Ingrid says. A proud, polite little thing.

“I’ll only make you feel a bit better. If you want it gone, you’ll have to tell her plain and clear. Though I’m sure you already know that.” Dorothea reaches out a finger to tap at Ingrid’s cheek.

“He’s dead, ma’am.”

Dorothea’s finger stalls. She has never heard of such a situation before but she does not react. “Ah,” she offers instead. “Apologies.”

“No need. It happened long ago.”

“Well then. I hope I’m a worthy distraction,” Dorothea says. “The symptoms should subside for a few days if you allow yourself a decent release. You do know how to relax, don’t you?”

Dorothea gestures down at Ingrid’s rigid posture. Raises an eyebrow.

Ingrid’s cheeks puff and she attempts to sit back on her heels. “Yes,” she states.

Dorothea is keenly aware that brokering a distraction worthy of satiating Ingrid’s disease, even for just a day, would mean a happy, repeat customer. She sits up on the couch. Her palm reaches out and settles on Ingrid’s forehead. She leans in, offering a stern pressure. “Down,” she says.

“Down?” Ingrid echoes, a lost little parrot. Dorothea laughs.

“All fours,” Dorothea says. “Start coughing.”

Ingrid’s eyes do not drift from Dorothea as she lowers herself. There’s a long, uncertain pause. Then, she offers a meak little mew of a cough. Dorothea clucks her tongue. “Deeper,” she says. “Come, now, dearheart. Don’t you want to feel better?”

“Yes,” Ingrid replies, voice shaky. “It’s… worsened. I can’t hide it from my battalion anymore.”

“You’re safe here,” Dorothea says. “There’s no need to fight anymore, is there? You can let it all out. Every last bit.”

Ingrid makes no move to proceed. Dorothea’s hand lowers to cup her cheek. A thumb sweeps out over her lower lip. “Open,” Dorothea says. There. Ingrid parts her lips on command. She’s panting, slightly. Her armor shifts. “And cough,” Dorothea finishes.

Ingrid shuts her eyes. Her throat clears, and she coughs. Once. Twice. And then her chest buckles and her upper body bucks downwards. Her forehead collides with the edge of the couch cushion, and Dorothea tucks the clammy, feverish, Faerghus knight’s face besides her thigh. Waits.

Something gives. Ingrid’s legs tense together and then a great outpouring of petals force themselves from between her jaws. They fall down, viscous with saliva and whatever liquids she’d drunk recently. The wave of flora settles in a little pile of sludge at the foot of Dorothea’s couch. Ingrid clutches at her stomach. She lets out a wheeze of breath, and then a sad little moan.

“Good girl,” Dorothea says. She tucks a loose weft of hair behind Ingrid’s ear. Ingrid licks her lips and spits out a final, pink petal stuck to the back of her teeth.

“Fuck,” Ingrid breathes out. She looks up, and Dorothea’s breath catches at the sight. 

There is a nobleblooded countess at her feet, lips glossy and papered with two spare petals stuck to her chin, eyes wide yet hazy, the mess of her longing splattered around her knees. She’s flushed fully, now. Her armor begs to be unlatched, her body released. Her head lulls back against Dorothea’s thigh and the songstress’ legs unconsciously clench together. A heat grows between them. She orders: “Again.”

Ingrid lets out a pained noise that is clearly unintentional, judging by the way she clamps her mouth shut afterwards. She shakes her head.

“You’ll feel better,” Dorothea whispers.

“Can’t,” Ingrid croaks.

“You can. You’re strong.” Dorothea leans forward. “Do you want to crawl up here? I’ll help you.”

“Your,” Ingrid starts, then stops. Dorothea can see her fighting off another wave. “Your dress.”

Dorothea is so surprised she outright laughs. Ingrid flinches, which is the exact reason Dorothea never laughs unless a client has offered a clear-cut joke in need of response. She quickly coos at Ingrid, saying, “no, no. This dress has seen far worse in this room than your pretty flowers, Countess.”

Ingrid swallows something thick. “Ingrid,” she states.

“Ingrid,” Dorothea corrects. “Lift yourself up here, won’t you. I’ve got you.” 

Ingrid knows how to follow orders. A good soldier, Dorothea muses. Ingrid remains on her knees but does lift her body up enough for Dorothea to settle her against her lap. Ingrid’s arms fall loose around Dorothea’s waist. Her face settles onto the fabric of her skirt, cheek pressed to Dorothea’s legs but gaze set firmly to the side.

“Catch your breath, sweet thing. Can I unclasp your hair?”

Ingrid nods, dumbly. Her chest shudders but Dorothea doesn’t force it open, doesn’t order another release. She unclips the barrettes in Ingrid’s hair and untangles the tight braids there. 

“I’m going to take your armor off now. Cough if you need to.”

Ingrid responds with a shudder and, oh, she’s turned on. Dorothea smiles another genuine smile. She is an expert in removing armor by now and a pegasus knight’s securing straps are lighter and less frequent than any other soldier’s. Dorothea discards the metal chestplate and pauldrons. She unbuttons the first two claps on the tunic, witnessing a small peek at Ingrid’s breasts—rising and falling with exertion. The heat between her legs tinders, and she shifts them beneath Ingrid’s face.

“That first bit was all of the petals that you’ve swallowed, recently,” Dorothea chides. “You shouldn’t do that. You’ll choke.”

“They’ll know,” Ingrid says.

“There’s no shame in that.”

“They’ll think I’m some foolish girl,” Ingrid continues, weak, “they’ll think me lovestruck, too ill to garner authority.”

“You won a war, didn’t you?” Dorothea says. She strokes her manicured fingers across Ingrid’s scalp and down through the sharp waves of hair left by her braids. Ingrid presses her head into the touch.

“I cannot falter.”

“You can,” Dorothea notes. “Here, at least. Do you think you can cough for me again? We need to get to the rooted ones in your lungs.”

Instead of dismissal or a pained noise, Ingrid gives a slow, sure nod. Her chest wanes in and she coughs. A flutter of petals catches on the sharp exhale. 

“Good, good,” Dorothea coos.

Ingrid coughs again, and again. Her whole body spasms and her arms instinctively cling to Dorothea’s waist. 

“Good,” Dorothea says, “Harder.”

Ingrid coughs more. A scatter of petals is draped over Dorothea’s lap. Ingrid buries her face into the fabric between Dorothea’s legs, slotting nicely amongst them. Dorothea has to bite back a happy trill and resist bucking her legs. Ingrid shudders once more, and a heavy chain of coughs sequentially wrack at her body.

When she pulls up to breathe Dorothea sees a single, fully-formed bloom discarded on her lap. Part of the stem is still attached to it. The petals are tattered from Ingrid’s strained effort but still largely attached to their core. Dorothea idly picks the flower up. “Beautiful,” she murmurs. 

She tucks it, gentle, behind her own ear. She is not sure if the look Ingrid gives her is one of horror or shocked, goddess-like reverence. 

“Up,” Dorothea says. She taps Ingrid’s cheek again. 

“Up?”

Dorothea pats her petal-covered lap. “Keep coughing. I just want to touch you.”

“Touch… me.” What a pretty little echo Ingrid is turning out to be.

“That is what you’re paying me for, isn’t it?” Dorothea asks.

Ingrid gives a stout nod and struggles to a stand. Her legs shake, and she easily stumbles onto the couch. Dorothea gestures and maneuvers her around as she pleases. A weak leg here, a shaky arm there. In a matter of moments she has Ingrid straddling her lap, her chin hooked over Ingrid’s shoulder, her palm tapping and rubbing at Ingrid’s back like one might a sick child. Ingrid is strong, but ultimately short. Stalky. She fits nicely against her body. Dorothea hums to denote this.

She kisses Ingrid’s cheek. Her hand sneaks down the back of Ingrid’s waistband. 

“I’m going to touch you, now,” Dorothea says. Matter-of-fact. Ingrid presses her face harsh into Dorothea’s neck, and she takes that as confirmation to continue.

When her fingers find heat it is wetter than Dorothea expects. Ingrid lets out a heavy breath when a finger enters her. She coughs, when Dorothea curls the finger upwards.

“Just like that,” Dorothea says, voice hushed. Her hips rise and fall in a slow, even rhythm. Ingrid moans with the next rise, chokes on the next dip, and gives in to a stuttering coughing fit that results in her bucking her hips down against Dorothea’s hand. Flowers collect in the divot between Dorothea’s shoulder and neck and the back of the couch.

“More?” she asks.

“More,” Ingrid breathes out, into the soft skin behind her ear. 

Two more fingers. Dorothea’s arm adjusts downwards, under her ass, so that she can thrust her fingers upwards and deeper. Ingrid’s pants and smallclothes are dragged down her thighs. Teasing curls of fingers are replaced with a harsh pounding. Ingrid moans, and it sounds garbled beneath a mouth full of petals. Dorothea tugs her tight against her chest.

“He’s not really dead, is he,” Dorothea whispers, harsh, against her. She rubs their hips together. “Your blooms are fresh.”

“I can’t,” Ingrid gasps, and Dorothea hits something right because she clamps down around Dorothea’s hand, her arms tightening around Dorothea’s shoulders.

“Can’t?” Dorothea coaxes.

“I can’t be,” Ingrid says, taking a deep breath. Their hips grind together and Dorothea’s brain flickers with the taste of friction. “I’m not in love with anyone.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m—” Ingrid shoves her forehead into the gap of Dorothea’s neck with a wave of pleasure, prying Dorothea’s head upwards. “I don’t know. Certainly not right now.”

“That’s right,” Dorothea murmurs. Her hand pivots and Ingrid lurches, her mouth lulling open. A trail of petals falls out of her mouth and down the front of Dorothea’s dress. She clenches tight and Dorothea knows she’s close.

“Dorothea,” Ingrid cries out. 

“Forget about him,” Dorothea says, “whoever he is.”

“I don’t know,” Ingrid gasps, again, hips canting up and down, desperate. 

“Good,” Dorothea states. She grinds her hips up against Ingrid’s. “I’ll siphon the sickness out of you myself.”

Ingrid lets out a load, hoarse moan and comes. The sickly sweet wetness gathers around Dorothea’s fingers and she pulls them out, letting Ingrid fall to a heap on top of her. Ingrid coughs one more time. Ingrid squirms with aftershocks, and the heat in Dorothea’s abdomen only grows as she watches the final petal fall to the couch cushion beside them.

“Mm,” Ingrid voices, her eyes closed as she attempts to piece herself back together. She sits up. Her breathing is slow, but her airway sounds clear. 

“Try to keep yourself distracted,” Dorothea tells her, all business. “The symptoms shouldn’t reemerge for a few days.”

Ingrid does not respond. Her eyes open. They’re glassy, her mind clearly unfocused. Her arm paws around Dorothea’s lap, blind. 

“You’re okay, I assume?” Dorothea asks. 

Ingrid continues to rustle the fabric of Dorothea’s skirt, grabbing a hold of a fold and pulling up. 

“Ingrid?” Dorothea says. Ingrid blinks a few times to clear her thoughts, then lifts Dorothea’s skirt to expose her underwear. Only then does she realize Ingrid’s intentions. “Oh!” Dorothea tacks on. “Oh, you don’t have to…”

She catches Ingrid’s eye. There’s a hunger there. A freedom, from the infestation that has taken root in her lungs. A desire, for the woman below her.

“Alright, then,” Dorothea smiles. Genuine, of course. “On your dime, Countess.”

“Ingrid,” Ingrid says.

“Ingrid,” Dorothea echoes, gesturing between her legs, “however you please.”


End file.
